Hüzün
by Calesvol
Summary: They became nearly legendary enemies later in life, but what became of them before is a story that few know of. Vlad was once precious, and they were dear, but what became of them could only be expected of enemies...could it not? Hamza/Vlad


Hüzün

(**Warnings**: Mentions of rape, death, gore, etc., Vlad/Hamza, Vlad/OC, one-shot.]

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Anatolian Peninsula, April 1446

Beige folds felt comatose, heavy against the weight of profuse exhaustion. Scrambled dictation strove to piece what had occurred just the night before, raven tresses spilling over emerald observances. Thick cushions and quilted covers shrouded he from the bitter night's cold, whispering sands buffeting billowing cascades of cloth enshrouding them both. Nauseating sense distilled through spurned senses as the boy, barely in his fifteenth year and not yet subject to facial growth, groggily arose with pain and stiffness lacing throughout his gangly form from having reposed for such a prolonged time without the slightest shift in movement. However, a sudden jolt of clarity resonated throughout him and the boy arose sharply, green hues exploding with recognition as disoriented ferocity momentarily seized him before a gasp suffused from florid roseate. "By God…" the boy murmured in disbelief, shirking back carefully as he saw none other than Hamza agha occupying the mound of cushions and throw rugs, a blush of shame crawling upon his features as his wild cascades of raven furled over his visage upon struggling into a pair of trousers and kaftan. Feeling satisfyingly clothed, within a silent rush of fabric Vlad embarked from the ingress of the tent, dazedly pushing aside the flap and girdled a falcon gauntlet about his forearm, the eager trilling of young eyass chattering in their cages of wooden poles as Vlad sought out one in particular. The most advanced in training, the oldest and boldest bequeathed upon him by Hamza agha, a ripening creature no longer a stripling of sleek black plumage—a peregrine he dubbed Tamerlane, sometimes Timar the Lame whose great historic accomplishments escaped the young Draculesti—as this eyass seemed to stride upon a limp when not in mesmerizing flight. And since the bird had taken to him so easily, it seemed fitting that he should be its handler. Still, as he purloined the hawk from its cage, Vlad still felt a dumbfounding sense of shame despite the fact that no sign of the past night's intercourse splayed upon his features. Just a slight redness that could be easily attributed to the heat of the sun suffusing through the vivid cloud enshrouding the dawn, bleeding through in resplendent hues. Timar chortled eagerly and his talons reflexively gripped and relaxed before a sudden frenzy of beating wings and loud squawking was punctuated by a frustrated growl and Vlad rectifying the bird's fervor for release, hissing in frustration that he might have revealed himself.

Dazedly, upon the bird recovering, and assured that no one had stirred from the night's drunken reveling and intoxication, he set off for more open expanses within this endless plain in Anatolia. Yes, intoxication; last night, Hamza had introduced the young Wallachian to the hookah and a drug unlike the tobacco usually smoked. Vlad had fallen into a sensory high, a daze as a vividness of experience arrested him to another's desires. Namely, Hamza. Why hadn't he fought the older man off? At nine, maybe ten…the Sultan Murad II had raped him and his brother. Him, more often than not, due to his unabashedly fierce defiance, and Radu had eventually been relinquished to Mehmed's growing harem—the whorish pig. Such a past had behooved him to abhor relations with another male, and all it might entail. But what had occurred last night? If he had truly distrusted Hamza so much, he would've fought the blond off. But he didn't. Even intoxicated, the Dragon still possessed tremendous strength of will. Had it felt wrong, he would've resisted with every ounce of strength that could be mustered by his soul and spirit. "I did nothing. By God, I did nothing," Vlad accursed blithely, casting his harrowing gaze to the restless Timar. "Take my thoughts and fly with them, Tamerlane. Banish them to the sky and return to renew my spirit." Uttered as if in prayer, he released the falcon into the sky, the beating of wings the only sound to be made above the flights of wind as the peregrine took of in exalting liberation. Just as he would someday soon himself. Feeling the blissful release, Vlad let his eyes fall closed and breathe in the scent of life, a glorious sense of peace filling him to the brim for the first time in so long.

Hours later, Vlad crept into the camp barely mustering the strength to awake, secreting Timar within his enclosure and making it seem as though he'd never been gone, knowing that his presence would've been noted by the punctual Turk by now. Yes, best remind himself of whom the men he'd befriended was—despite the fact that the eve before had placed everything within stark perspective. …If he'd truly seen Hamza as only a friend, last night wouldn't have happened. He wouldn't have been bedded by his teacher. Most of all… No, the Dragon would never admit to such a thing. Not in all the seven levels of Hell. Feeling his heart thrill within his chest, Vlad reluctantly entered, shocked by the warm greeting of his teacher. "Ah, Vlad! I didn't think you were such an early riser. Care for a morning brew?" Hamza greeted cordially, Vlad suppressing the blush that was threatening to form. Silence answered for him, the scent of tea proliferated with greater poignancy between them than the words that were expected to be spoken. It took a moment for the blond to gain awareness, azure hues narrowing. "…There will be tea here if you ever wish for it. Or coffee…. We will be returning to Edirne within the fortnight. We won't be stranded within the desert for long." Hamza's voice was dry and toneless, aware of Vlad's apparent shame. And yet, he…felt none. But how could he tell his beloved student that this had been desire he'd wished to act on for so long? This boy…he was beautiful. And surely he could grow to become the illustrious pinnacle of beauty his brother had become—if only he didn't cloak his face in shadowed tress and mar it with ugly scowls and fierce expression. He knew how Vlad had suffered, at Tokat and Egrigoz and now Edirne he'd come to live in. It had changed him irrevocably, and the Son of the Dragon had become a true Dragon in ways his brothers and father simply didn't deserve. Shaken from his thoughts, he faced Vlad to see the much younger man blankly studying a manual for the training of eyass, sure that the Wallachian prince didn't truly see or retain the words within. Sighing deeply, Hamza concentrated on his tea, wondering if things would ever be the same between them ever again.

Edirne, July 1446

Months had passed without conversation between them. Sometimes Vlad felt the passing inclination to speak with Hamza agha once more, once again like before, but every time he mustered the courage to do so, overwhelming summation of that night leapt to the fore of his mind spoiled attempts with memory of their mingling limbs and the sinful taboo that had flourished between them. Therefore, it shamed him beyond recognition. Even Ion had taken notice after classes one day, the balmy heat driving them both to the dusty streets overshadowed by the claustrophobic confines of homes nestled together, the upper floors elegantly screened from the outside in order to conceal the harem from the prying eyes of men. The sun burned holes in the eyes who dare allow them to ascend into the heavens, though they were barely spared by it harshly glancing from the clay mortar of the buildings, making it a suffering to endure for the two boys sequestered within the cooled and shaded confines of the endurun kolejn, within their orta. Almost an oddity in itself, Vlad's hair that typically reached to the nape of his neck was pulled back by a leather band, revealing a visage that could've easily rivaled his brother's, as Ion was surprised to see. Though he could truly care less. Daintily indulging in lemon sherbert, both boys did so sparingly. "Vlad, tell me, what's been troubling your great oafish brain? Whenever you're around Hamza agha, I swear you act like a virtuous maiden—you avert his eyes and never speak to him." The addressed fixed Ion with a glare that would've caused other men to piss themselves, though Ion merely flinched slightly, coughing to alleviate some of the attention. "There's nothing going on except your girlish imaginings running away with your rationale," Vlad snarled, brusquely shoving past his only friend, displacing the Nord. He stalked past angrily, feeling rage boil within him, pushing him to the brink of collapsing.

Further up the street, Algerian slave traders were corralling their human wares further up the street, the women clad in burqas not because of their faith, but of dominion—for once sold, they would be conditioned to Islamic ways and no doubt made to live in a harem. Vlad balked suddenly, seeing as one of the girls was protesting in defiance, raging and railing passionately. He felt this was unjust, and noticed a Janissary no-doubt drunk on raki and the heat basking oafishly in the sun outside of a smoking parlor, tavern adjacent, Vlad murmuring, "Let me borrow this," before unsheathing the man's sword and bolting towards the abuser. "You pig of an Infidel!" he snarled savagely before goring the man through the his gut as he screamed flagrantly in pain, Vlad's visage as fierce as his namesake and no doubt a frightening thing to see, twisting the impaled blade inhumanely and viciously wrenching it upwards and seizing the girl's hand within the same lapse of time that the Algerian fell dead and they had taken off at a sprint.

"You'll be safe with me!" Vlad called above the rush of wind, mind taken to only one place of refuge that he could depend on. But he would have to cast his own inhibitions aside as hers were far more tantamount. Her chocolate hues possessed no kohl that most women within a harem did…but by God, they were entrancing. Shaking off his inappropriate thoughts, the Dragon took liberating flight as Timar had but months before, finding refuge within the last person he thought he'd ever turn to: Hamza agha.

A hammam within Edirne, late August 1446

"Vlad III Dracula, my voivode; my sweet prince," Amanirenas breathed as she and the Wallachian embraced and kissed passionately after another romantic rendezvous within the upper floors of a nearly abandoned hammam, feminine form as dark as lacquered wood pressed against slightly tan masculinity, the Nubian girl he'd rescued a few months before having become one he'd come to love above all else. A Nubian princess forcibly kidnapped by Alergian raiders, her home upon the Nile delta, her lineage indeed royal and threatened. As she'd reiterated to him, while her sister had been wed to one of the Sultan's distant relations for the sake of appeasement, her disappearance had placed a strain upon them. Vlad simply smiled into the junction of her swan-like neck, infatuated with the exotic beauty roiling naked against him, their forms united in this blissful lovemaking. For his loved his Nubian princess affectionately dubbed Amani, a steadfast friend as Ion and lover he loved with every inkling of his passionate soul. And she, in turn, loved her Wallachian prince dearly. Hungrily, kisses were pressed into the splendor of her skin as dark as sugarcane and far more sweet, chocolate and Turkish delight. "Beautiful Amani, my beautiful Nubian princess," he breathed before staunching their breaths, both equally voluptuous to the other. Upon finishing with another passionate bout of lovemaking with the arid and spacious place, Vlad sighed and allowed them both to spoon, the black fleece of her hair voluminous against his lean bicep, bound in a trio of leather bands and trailing of the ledge of the hammam shelf, her slender digit tracing tracing idle circles into his chest.

"Amani, you are a princess, are you not?" her beloved Dragon murmured into her blackened tress, gathering her closer against his chest, eyes closed contentedly. Amani giggled and her richly accented voice simpered, "I'd hope so—my brothers, sisters, and family seem to think so." Vlad kissed her giddily, her lengthened extrusions entwining around his neck to deepen it. They parted, finally, they sighing in unison as they enjoyed the spell of silence between them to its utmost, the slightly younger teen gazing at her with absolute infatuation within his eyes. "Amani…dragostea mea, Hamza told me that within a fortnight, one of his mercantile friends he has connections to will be voyaging to Wallachia, the only one we can depend on. That ship can safely bring you there, a party at your side to deliver you to Tirgoviste safely as I should be returning very soon…" There was a slight blush tinging his cheeks, though it was from excitement and not from embarrassment, their hearts thudding against their sternums for the other to perceive clearly. "Amanirenas, what I mean to ask you is if you won't wed me and become my wife," he professed finally, searching her chocolate hues hopefully for a positive response. She fell silent for a moment in contemplation, then shifting slightly to embrace him tightly.

"I accept, with all my heart, my love. And I know that we shall be so happy together…" her voice drifted, lilting in a slight and elated giggle, her happiness and their evening together having exhausted her utterly. Vlad smiled again, pressing a tender kiss to her forehead, gathering her into his arms as the two young lovers slept together.

"And the next we shall lay together like this shall be within the palace of Tirgoviste, upon the softness of a true bed and not some cot," Vlad whispered softly, voice dipping into an endearing and intimate low. "I love you, Amanirenas, my princess—Queen of this Dragon's heart."

"And I love you, my Lord…"

September 28, 1446, Hamza's residence.

Unlike most farewells, their departure had been happy and absolutely tender, and it wasn't until the gangplank was threatening to rise did they part. Already, it had been nearly a month, and hardly a day wasn't spent by the teenaged Dragon dreaming of their time together in Targoviste, of how he wished to tour with her through the princely gardens, perhaps have some of the gardeners teach her some techniques so doldrums of boredom might be abated by her tender hand upon the plants she could lovingly cultivate. Signs of her life-giving prowess was present in the greenery adorning several places and adding a saturation of gorgeous vitality and vibrancy that would surely be the envy of others. And it had all been by his beloved princess's hand. Seated upon a recessed bench and gazing out upon the trafficked thoroughfare of Edirne, he was content. Thanks to her, even, his friendship with Hamza had been nigh restored despite what had happened months ago. Subjects the elder broached upon were sometimes averted with another or met with silence, especially if they seemed to be a reflectance of what had transpired in April. Vlad didn't need to be beleaguered with such pointless thoughts when a mistake couldn't weigh upon him so heavily. Stirrings of his return to Wallachia to seize his father's throne from the wretched Danesti claimant had been increasing as of late, especially from Murad who seemed eager to use the young Draculesti as a loyal vassal. The bloated pig—he and his shit of a son, Murad. He was loyal to no one but his people, his family that would someday be and the heirs he would sire with his beloved princess despite her harkening from a foreign land. A princess was still a princess, and of a higher pedigree than any boyar daughter or woman could ever hope to claim. He had no engagements from birth to honor, as his father had neglected in doing so. If anything, part of him expected a pasha to be relegated that duty, for him to wed a noblewoman from one of their loyal vassal states. Instill loyalty to the Porte and be rewarded with rule, is that so? No, for since his earliest youth the Dragon had sworn himself to a life of rebellion, and he wouldn't see through to an end with him kissing the hem of the Sultan's shit-stained kaftan. The only kiss he hoped to expedite was one with a pale emerging from his lips—a concessionary admission.

From a shaded place, Hamza held a small scroll of parchment within his hands, gazing at Vlad with tensity in azure spheres, his black turban providing a morass in which shielded his features as his eyes read the contents of the message with detachment, the heart that ached for the boy seated at the bench, so subdued and peaceful, that wrenched further at the possibility of the news that would have to be told. He remembered himself at that age, such a great distance ago it seemed, the son of a Polish slave woman, a kul to the Sultan, and an Anatolian freeman formerly a peasant. But it had to be done. Better to do it now than face Vlad's wrath for harboring lies for so long later. "Vlad," Hamza addressed the raven-haired youth tonelessly, the boy cordial at first before his emerald orbs shadowed at the expression on Hamza's visage, strained and embroiled by strife. Vlad said nothing and instead strode towards the man with anger writ upon his features, more so in anticipation for the news Hamza bore. He snatched the parchment and let his intense gaze bore through the curvaceous Arabic script, his hands instantly beginning to tremble as he neared its end.

The ship Amani had taken had been sunk by Barbary corsairs, leaving no survivors.

There was no way Hamza would've been able to contain the explosive howl that tore from Vlad's throat, the boy snatching a bastinado leaning against a wall and beginning to savagely slash at anything within range, a vase shattered upon impact of the powerful blow, a raging, mournful bellowing resonating throughout the home as Vlad's tirade only worsened. Amani was dead! The only woman he'd loved in his life was dead! His happiness, his joy, his radiant moon was dead! Luna mea died at their hands! Vlad's savagery seemed to only escalate as his shoulder-length hair whipped about him and tears shed profusely in blind rage and grief, Hamza recoiled and hunkering against the ground in mute shock. Mustering the strength to impetus, Hamza ducked beneath a roundhouse circle of the wooden blade, the Wallachian so powerful already despite his puerile age. Hamza barely avoided a crippling blow, seizing Vlad's sword-wielding forearm and twisting it behind his back, knocking it from his hands as Vlad supplemented with furious cries of Amani's name and a streaming series of curses in Wallachian aimed against the men who had done this to her. "Vlad, please!" Hamza shouted in protest, whirling the teen around as Vlad suddenly crumpled to his knees, Hamza sinking to the ground with him as the boy's shoulders shook with sobs. Embracing him tightly, in a manner he'd longed to do since that night, Hamza cast a furtive glance at the entrance to his harem as the women and children within gossiped in stricken fright amid themselves. Returning his attention to Vlad, Hamza pressed his slightly aquiline nose into the boy's hair, both in the closure of comfort and the desire he'd been harboring for years now.

"Vlad…" the man ventured softly, voice graven, entwining his tanned digits through midnight locks, "you don't have to worry about anything anymore. If my performance continued to improve, I could become an emir, a pasha—even a bey. I could protect you for the rest of your life, and you would never know strife again, so long as I would be here for you." There was a stiffening of limbs as Vlad instantly became rigid in the other man's arms, the arms of he who loved the Wallachian, withdrawing brusquely as anger flared within his features once more.

"You would ask me to become like my brother? Who has become the Sultan's son's personal whore? Your personal whore?" Vlad deprecated in defiance, rage within reddened eyes once more. He shoved Hamza away and stood, glaring down at the other with malice, grief, and burning rage simmering with the intensity of Greek Fire. His fists clenched with trembling and his jaw clenched, temples throbbing. "I would never abandon my people or my homeland, effendi! Why am I so surprised?! It takes only a Turk to cripple a man with cowardice and coercion, you lot of pigs! You sons of whores and devil spawn! I will return to my homeland, and when I've militarized and restored it gloriously, I will slaughter every Turk that dare tread within my kingdom and impale you on pales greased with the lard of pigs so that you all shall be sentenced to Hell! I will drive you away from Europa and drive you into the sea! And you shall die by my hand one way or another!" The teen's voice escalated into a Dragon's roar, seizing Hamza by the lapels of his kaftan and riveting him to a wall, the Turk too stunned to say anything or retaliate as the tall and lean Wallachian fettered him to his will. "And of all those I shall kill, when my war with the Ottomans reaches its peak, you shall be one of the first that shall be slaughtered like a lamb unto the One. True. God." Breathing labored, Vlad let the man crumple to the ground upon release, hastening to leave once and for all.

For it would truly be years until he saw Hamza Pasha ever again.

February 10, 1462, Targoviste.

Ragged tatters of finery clung to his tanned form shivering with cold, stained with fecal matter and wastes, a shadow of the handsome man he'd once been. Hamza was pressed upon a pile of filthy hay, shivering in the dank and in the cold, a barred window seeping slight cascades of profuse snow that froze the man to the bone. His eyes blurred whenever he attempted to open them, and harsh scattering of light of the patrols that occasionally passed by hurt his eyes now so acclimated to the dark. In desperation, handfuls of snow sated his thirst and hunger though left him bereft of warmth, bitterly cold and aching for warmth. Hamza's bleary eyes creased open in reluctance as wavering streams of light infiltrated and a burning pair of spectral, emerald orbs met his. Hamza arose in deliberation and disbelief, fumbling to arise to stand. "Vlad…is that you? How long has it been?" Hamza managed in stuttering disbelief, blue eyes widly seeking to hone upon Vlad's. They were the same. But he'd matured, and even ravaged by war, the younger man was still as beautiful as ever. Hamza wept profusely, so joyful to see the man he loved again once more. "Sixteen years, Hamza agha," Vlad replied softly, genuflecting upon one knee and touching a hand to the elder's cheek, gaunt from weakness and lack of food, but still the same man he remembered in his youth, give or take the barest fraction of wrinkles forming from too many years of being the inextinguishable optimist Vlad had always remembered him as. Hamza trembled gladly as he pulled Vlad into the tightest of embraces, the younger reciprocating it in a vice. The Turk wept like never before, happier now than he'd been in years. "…It's been quite some time, hasn't it?"

Hamza nodded, recollecting the day they'd received news of Amani's death and of how he'd held the young Wallachian, and how it was suddenly reciprocated in opposite. His tears shed and bled into the finely sewn black of Vlad's tunic, embroidered with a silver-stitched dragon like that of the Order of the Dragon. By Allah, curse his miserable and weak heart. Sixteen years hadn't changed how he felt towards this young man. "Vlad—Allah forgive my weak heart—you know…perhaps you knew…how I perceive you, even now. Please…I know this is war. You captured me at Girgiu because of it. But, by Allah, please…as long as you know. I didn't violate you, Vlad, all those years ago. I wouldn't have taken you had you refused me. I know what the Sultan did to you, of how he ravished you. I know of his atrocities, and I abhorred him for it. But you… Tel me you know of what I speak, sevgili ejderha." The Turk's voice pleaded, and Vlad fell into a graven silence. "…The reason I hated you for so long was because I was but a boy. My heart was weak, and I refused to believe what it felt. And when Amani died, love beget hatred and for so long I hated you. Know you know, don't you? And it's because of this that of all the prisoners, you shall be the first to die." His words struck Hamza like a death knell, Vlad's expression void yet steady, the barriers within emerald meres too deep now to be penetrated like they had been in his youth. He became riveted with fear and desperation, whispering, "No…why? I know this is war, but how you see me…please, have mercy!" Vlad merely extricated himself from the embrace and stood, expression curiously cruel and tender all at once. Raven tress shaded his face partly, and only a single emerald orbs conveyed anything at all.

"Yes, I do love you, Hamza. I have for sixteen years, almost as long I've loved Amani, and my wife and son most of all. It is because of this that you shall die the swiftest and most merciful death. You shall be beheaded, your pale not greased with the fat of swines, and it shall be the first to be planted. You will join Allah and the Prophet, and whatever awaits you in Paradise. Unlike your contemporaries who will most likely be sentenced to death, for you are their better. Upon the highest pale, you shall be the only one to reach Paradise, and it shall be swift," Vlad uttered tonelessly, striding towards the barred egress and motioning to close it, a draguli present. "Your execution shall be within the hour, and it will be swift—and by my hand. My last act of devotion to you." With those words, he departed, leaving Hamza within the darkness. The man curled into himself and wept, unable to do anything else as grief overtook him.

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**Credit**: This is actually a bit of a crossover between Hellsing and Vlad: The Last Confession by C.C. Humphreys. His story had an enormous impact on my Alucard rp blog, _**calisvol**_ on tumblr, and as such this is actually a crossover. This is from a drabble that's about a year old from my Alucard rp blog, actually. Things were changed, added, and whatnot as per my discretion and the like, but hopefully the end result was as sad as friends of mine said it was. :D

Amani (c) Me

Many other things (c) C.C. Humphreys

~Peace, G.


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